


Language Of Love, Or Whatever

by violasarecool



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Poetry, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyshipping Day, background inquisitor/cassandra and bull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 15:53:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13838058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violasarecool/pseuds/violasarecool
Summary: with the inquisitor soon to be dating both cassandra and bull, dorian doesn't imagine he's interested in adding a third to the mix. pining ensues





	Language Of Love, Or Whatever

Rascón was partway through the second floor of Skyhold on his way to see Leliana that morning when he found a book unceremoniously shoved in his face.

"Take a look at this," was all the greeting he got, as Dorian held out the open book with one hand, the other still idly browsing the shelves.

"Good morning, Dorian," Rascón said with a somewhat exasperated smile. Despite Rascón's turbulent history with mages, it was hard not to like the man. Not only was he cheerfully sarcastic in a way that suited Rascón's own dry sense of humour; he was charmingly enthusiastic at times, a side of him that had begun to grow on Rascón.

...Though he wouldn't have said as much. He was rather enjoying the reputation for vaguely threatening silence he'd cultivated, and the moderate personal space it afforded (no matter how many times Varric called him "Grumpy").

Rascón focused on the open pages of the book Dorian had handed him, chunks of criss-crossing lines covering its surface. "So, I have _no idea_ what this says."

Dorian glanced up, eyebrows raised. "Sorry, did I hand you my Tevene research instead?" He held out a hand, and Rascón passed the book back, waiting as Dorian glanced across the pages himself. "No, that's in Common, all right... Inquisitor," Dorian said, giving him a curious look, "can you _read?"_

"I can read!" Rascón said shortly, crossing his arms. "I just don't read _books."_

Dorian stared, mouth open in bafflement. "You... how can you not read _books?_ Not _any? Ever?"_

"What would I have read, exactly?" Rascón said, frowning. " _'_ _How to guard lyrium from back-stabbing assholes!''"_ He snorted, shaking his head. "I've never even seen this many books before," he said, gesturing at the shelves that lined the walls. "We smuggle lyrium, Dorian. I read a few written notes, that's about it. Same as anyone else."

"I see," Dorian said, brows creased slightly. "Forgive me, I wasn't implying..." He glanced at the book in his hand. "Perhaps I was. My apologies," he said, somewhat stiffly.

Rascón shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

Dorian seemed to have something more to say to that, but he pursed his lips, turning back to replace the book on the shelf. Then, he glanced at Rascón, head tipped. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't Josephine like to send you _pages-long_ diplomatic reports to review?"

"Yes she does," Rascón said, mouth tugging up in amusement.

"Long, wordy reports," Dorian said, with an ever-widening grin.

"Yep."

Dorian laughed. "And you, what, glance over it, pretend to understand her blathering—dear Maker, she does like to go on—and hope you're not agreeing to start a war with some minor noble?"

"Well, I ask her to _summarize_ it," Rascón said.

"And how does that work out for you?" Dorian asked innocently.

Rascón made a face. "We're usually done in an hour or two," he said, and Dorian snorted.

"Haven't you _told_ her? You're not the type to beat around the bush."

"Oh, I have," Rascón said. "Multiple times. She said she'd like me to 'have access to the reports just in case'." He shrugged. "If she wants to have them transcribed repeatedly, that's her business. It's _Cassandra_ I'm worried abou..." He trailed off, jaw clenching shut as he realized what he was about to say.

"What has our dear Seeker done now?" Dorian said, eyebrows raised. "Please, do tell, I love hearing the juicy gossip."

"Uh." Rascón cleared his throat. "It's not... something she's _done,_ exactly..." Dorian looked at him expectantly, and he sighed. "She wants me to read her... poetry?" Rascón winced, the words awkward in his mouth. "I mean. She wants to be read poetry. By someone, who could be me? Fuck, nevermind," Rascón muttered, waving an arm as he turned to make a hasty retreat.

Dorian instinctively caught him by the arm—"Rascón... Inquisitor. Hold on a moment."

Rascón stopped, turned slowly to face Dorian, a wary expression on his face. Like he was waiting for a blow to fall; for Dorian to laugh at him, ridicule him. It hurt a little, that he was still so distrustful after everything they'd been through. Maybe that was what prompted Dorian to say what he did: "Let me help you out."

If anything, Rascón's frown only deepened. "What."

 _"_ _Help,_ is that a word you're not familiar with?" Dorian said dryly. "I'm sure I can find you something even you can soldier through with a bit of coaching."

"You want to help me learn to read _love poetry?"_ Rascón said, wincing even as he said the words.

Cold shot through Dorian's chest at _that_ delightful irony, _I'd love to teach you love poetry. A few candles, a darkened bedroom, a book of sensual, overly florid verses you'd only laugh at—_ he cleared his throat, glanced down at a lower shelf, composing himself. "If that's what you want, then yes, certainly. At the very least," he flashed Rascón a bright smile, "we'll make sure you don't make a fool of yourself, how about that?"

"If you're sure?" Rascón said, with a somewhat confused look.

"Oh, absolutely," Dorian said breezily.

Rascón sighed, some of the tension easing out of his shoulders. "Thanks, Dorian," he said, face relaxing into a tired smile. "I should get going," he said, jerking a hand at the stairs across the way, "Leliana's waiting for me."

"Of course," Dorian said, nodding. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Rascón approached the stairs; as soon as he disappeared from view, Dorian let his head fall against the bookshelf in front of him with a groan. "'Why, yes of _course_ , I'll help you date someone else, Inquisitor, happy to help!"

* * *

He didn't start that day, or the next—trying to save the world kept one on a tight schedule. Frankly Dorian had put it out of his mind until a few days later when he passed Rascón and Cassandra on his way back up to the library, both of them still sweaty and dirty from the morning's outing, yet stopped in the middle of the courtyard as if there was nothing they'd rather be doing, Cassandra _smiling_ of all things (smiling!). 

And really, anything that could make Cassandra seem cheerful, for even a moment, had to be a good thing. _Face it, Dorian, this is happening._

So when a small figure came creeping up on him a few hours later, sat amid a pile of books, chin in hand as he scanned verses, he didn't notice a thing until a voice very close to his ear exclaimed:

"Is that _poetry?"_

Dorian started back with a curse, whipping around toward the source of the noise. Sera waved a book at him, leaning out across the stacks of poetry books Dorian had managed to scrounge up. "Didn't figure you to be the type," she said, letting the book fall open.

"Give me that," Dorian snapped, snatching it back.

"Hang on," Sera said, tipping her head to stare at the books, "is that _love_ poetry?"

"That is none of your business," Dorian said as haughtily as he could manage, supressing the urge to gather all the books into a pile in his lap where she couldnt get at them.

Sera picked up another book, cheerfully ignoring Dorian's protests. "Holy shitballs, you're mooning over love poetry. It's for the Inquisitor, innit," she said, waggling her eyebrows at him.

"No!" Dorian retorted, face flushing. Her grin widened. "Well, yes," he said, increasingly desperate, "but not—"

"Hah!" Sera clapped her hands gleefully. "I bloody knew it, you two are _so obvious."_

"The Inquisitor _asked_ me to—wait, 'you two'?"

Sera cocked her head, meeting his confused look with incredulity. "You're not actually telling me you think he's not into you."

"I..." Dorian gave up. "The poetry books are for _Cassandra."_

Sera laughed. "Yeah, sure."

"From the Inquisitor," he added, and now Sera gave him a baffled look.

"You what?"

Dorian sighed. "He asked for help in choosing poetry for Cassandra. Well. I suppose I offered, Maker help me," he muttered.

"Huh," she said, "grump and grump. I guess it kinda makes sense." Something seemed to occur to her, and she snorted. "Maybe miss tight-ass will finally loosen up a bit if she gets laid. Geddit? Because her ass—"

" _Please,"_ Dorian cut her off, "that is _not_ the image I need right now."

"Right. You and your grumpy problem," she said. "Um. So what's the problem again? Cause like," she hopped up to sit on the table, legs swinging beneath her, "he's already banging Bull, right? So if he's good with banging Bull _and_ Cass, what makes you think he wouldn't be fine with banging you too?"

 _And if he's only interested in sex?_ Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. "Please stop saying ' _banging'_."

"Alright..." Sera glanced at him slyly. "Shagging?"

"That's worse."

"Boffing? Hanky panky? Baking the potato? Pizzling? Scrumping?"

Dorian stared at her. "I don't believe half of those are words."

"They totally are," Sera said cheerfully. "What about sklooging, that's a fun one, or—"

" _Sera,"_ Dorian hissed, "we are in a public place, and if you don't stop... _saying_ _words,_ I swear by Andraste I will put a silencing spell on you."

She gave him a dirty look. "Alright, no need for that, I was just trying to help." She pushed herself upright, and took a few steps away from the table before swinging around. "You could probably _use_ the whole poetry thing, though. Two birds with one stone, you know?" She wiggled her eyebrows at him. "Language of _love_ , or whatever." When he didn't reply, she added, "seduce him with your words?"

Dorian sighed. "Yes, thank you, I understood."

"Thank fuck for that," Sera said, rolling her eyes. She reached over, and punched him on the shoulder. Hard. He swatted a hand at her, but she skipped out of the way, cackling. "Go get him, you wimp!" she called, as she ran off.

"I resent that!" he called after her retreating form. "I _resent_ that?" he muttered, sinking back into his chair, "you call that a comeback?" He ran a hand over his forehead. "Focus, Dorian."

* * *

They finally got down to it a week later (the poetry, not sex, thank you very much) after a particularly difficult journey that had culminated in a trip into the Fade. Their whole party were swaying on their feet by the time they got back; they were bruised, and sore, and in any other circumstance Dorian could probably have slept until the _next_ evening. But his head still rang with old memories made vivid by the Fade, his whole body vibrating like he'd drunk 5 mugs of coffee.

While Sera immediately disappeared into the tavern, Blackwall following for what Dorian suspected were more alcohol-based reasons, Rascón just looked at Dorian, dark lines under his own tired eyes. "I don't think I'm gonna be sleeping for a while," he admitted with a grimace.

"Nor I," Dorian said. "Want to read some terrible poetry?"

"Sounds like a plan."

Skyhold was almost quiet, this late at night; most of the civilians and visiting nobles, at least, were long in bed, leaving only stealthy courriers and the occasional night owl such as themselves to prowl the grounds. Inside, their voices echoed about the empty stone walls, and they lowered their voices so as not to disturb the dark emptiness of the fortress as they read.

Dorian sat slumped against the table, one arm propping up his head as he flipped through pages; Rascón's face crinkled in an enormous yawn as he watched, chin on the table itself. "Ok... now," Rascón said, and Dorian stopped on command, smoothed down the pages.

"The Heart That Loveth Me," Dorian read.

"That heart my heart hath in such grace

That of two hearts one heart make we;

That heart hath brought my heart in case

To love that heart that loveth me."

Dorian trailed to a stop. "What?" He rubbed his fingers across his eyes, before staring back down at the page. "Maker, I didn't absorb a single word of that."

"Yeah, all I got was a lot of hearts," Rascón said.

"Yes," Dorian agreed, tossing the book on the pile, "and it looks like the rest devolves into a nightmarish tongue-twister. We'll spare you that one."

"Appreciated."

Dorian opened another book, eyes drifting down the page. "Alright, separated lovers, more hearts, blah blah, flowers standing in for genitals—" 

_What,_ Rascón mouthed silently.

"Mm, here's one," Dorian said, sitting up straighter, "called 'The Silent Lover'. It begins: 'Passions are liken'd best to _floods and streams_ '," he said, eyebrows raised over a widening smirk. Rascón frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it, shooting Dorian a reluctantly amused look. Dorian pressed on: "The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb—"

" _This_ is dumb."

"—So, when affection yields discourse, it seems the bottom is but shallow whence they come."

"The—" Rascón stared at Dorian for a second, then laughed loudly, the sound echoing around the open room. " _The bottom whence they come,"_ Rascón snorted. "I thought this was supposed to be... _high romance,_ or whatever. It just sounds like flowery sex talk."

"My dear Rascón, high romance _is_ flowery sex talk," Dorian drawled, letting his arm fall open on the table for emphasis. "All poetry _really_ is, is dirty schoolboy letters written by schoolboys who've grown up!"

Rascón opened his mouth to speak, which turned into another yawn.

"Stop that," Dorian said, yawning himself. "It's very contagious, you know."

"Keep going, then," Rascón said, and Dorian picked another page at random before Rascón could yawn again. "My true love hath my heart and I have his,/ By just exchange one for another given;/ I hold his dear, and mine—"

"Ehh," Rascón said, and Dorian trailed to a stop, head tipping up toward Rascón.

"Yes?"

"I'm no poetry expert," Rasón said, pushing himself upright to lean his crossed arms on the table, "but _one_ , uh, _heart,_ in _exchange_ for another? Isn't exactly what's happening here."

"Ah," Dorian said. The answer to a question he had rather been avoiding. He ducked his head back down toward the book, but his mouth continued, unprompted: "Then you and Bull are, ah, serious? As well?"

"Yeah," Rascón said softly. "I think so."

Dorian ventured a glance halfway up towards the table, not sure if he wanted to see what was in Rascón's eyes, but Rascón was turned toward the bookshelves now, staring at nothing in particular. Dorian took a deep, quiet breath, trying to slow his pounding heart. It helped, in a somewhat shadenfreude-fueled way, that when Dorian glanced up again he noticed Rascón's ears were somewhat redder than normal. Suppressing a smile, Dorian picked up another book, scanning it silently.

"Alright, how about this one," Dorian said, clearing his throat. "On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath. It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover's kiss." Rascón grunted, unimpressed, and Dorian glanced up in time to see him roll his eyes. "Yes, more flowers, Andraste forgive me." He continued: "It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss.

"His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer." Rascón was quiet now, and Dorian could feel his eyes burning into him as he read—"Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night." He heard Rascón shift slightly, the sound loud in the quiet room, watched out of the corner of his eye as Rascón's shoulders twitched. "His eyes reflect the heaven's stars, the Maker's light." And now Dorian made the mistake of glancing fully up, eyes meeting Rascón's— _damn this infernal poetry—_ the flickering torches mirrored in his eyes like starlight. Dorian forced his gaze down, face burning as he frantically scanned the page, but he'd lost his place. "A little sappy," he choked out, to cover his scrambling, "maybe something else—"

"No, it's... good," Rascón said, voice low, though Dorian didn't dare look up to gauge his reaction. "His lips on mine speak words not voiced," he murmured, and Dorian shivered. _This is_ bad, _Dorian, you mess of a human, get out of there before you do something stupid—_

"Well!" Dorian said loudly, standing up so abruptly his chair skidded backward with a high-pitched whine. "I think we can stop there for now, you know what they say, making a choice is half the battle!"

"Do... they?" Rascón said, with a baffled look, but Dorian wasn't stopping for anything now.

"Anyway, I should be getting to bed, _you_ should be getting to bed, all that Inquisit-ing to do in the morning, don't let me keep you," he said, flashing a bright smile before quickly turning toward the stairs. "Goodnight, Inquisitor!" he called, already taking the stairs as quickly as he could without actually running.

"Night, Dorian," Rascón's voice echoed hollowly through the long staircase.

 _Next time,_ Dorian told himself, _don't read love poetry alone with him in the middle of the night when you're so sleep deprived you can hardly think._ A terrible idea, for so many reasons that didn't even include the dirty look Solas shot him as Dorian sheepishly tiptoed past his bed on his way out into the main hall. One would hope he hadn't disturbed Leliana's sleep too, or embarrassing himself in front of the Inquisitor would be the _least_ of his worries.

**Author's Note:**

> (i do have more fic planned to resolve this but the way events fit together this one works better as a one-off)


End file.
